The sun had hitherto been very unpleasantly hot, but I was now sheltered from its rays, while the pure mountain air gave to the foliage a brightness which in the Schlangenbad woods I had so often stopped to admire. Although it was midsummer, the old brown beech leaves of last year still covered the surface of the ground; yet they were so perfectly dry, that far from there being anything unhealthy or gloomy in their appearance, they formed a very beautiful contrast with the bright, clean, polished leaves, as well as with the white, shining bark of the beech trees, out of which they had only a year ago sprung into existence. This russet covering of the ground was, generally speaking, in shade, but every here and there were bright sparkling patches of sunshine, which, having penetrated the foliage, shone like gaudy patterns in a dark carpet.
As the breeze gently stole among the trees, their branches in silence bowing as it passed them, their brown leaves, being crisp and dry, occasionally moved;—occasionally they were more violently turned over by small fallow deer, which sometimes darted suddenly across my path, their skin clean as the foliage on which they slept—their eye darker than the night, yet brighter than the pure stream from which they drank.
Enjoying the variety of this placid scene, I took every opportunity, in search of novelty, to change my track; still, from the position of the sun, always knowing whereabouts I was, I contrived ultimately to proceed in the direction I desired, and after having been for a considerable time completely enveloped in the forest, I suddenly burst into hot sunshine close to Georgenborn, a little village, hanging most romantically on the mountain’s side.
The Rhine, and the immense country beyond it, now flashed upon my view, and as I trotted along the unassuming street, it was impossible to help admiring the magnificent prospect which these humble villagers constantly enjoyed; however, the mind, like the eye, soon becomes careless of the beauties of creation, and as my pony jogged onwards in his course, I found that the cottagers looked upon us both with much greater interest than upon that everlasting traveller the Rhine. Every woman we met, with great civility grunted “Guten Morgen!” as we passed her, while each mountain peasant seen standing at a door, or even at a window, made obeisance to us as we crossed his meridian, all people’s eyes following us as far as they could reach.
From Georgenborn, descending a little, we crossed a piece of table or level land, on which there stood a rock of a very striking appearance. Where it had come from, Heaven (from whence apparently it had fallen) probably only knows. As if from the force with which it had been dropped upon its site, it had split into two pieces, separated by a yawning crevice, yet small trees or bushes had grown upon each summit, while the same beech foliage appeared in the forest which surrounded them.
Passing close beneath this rock, I continued trotting towards the east for about a league, when gradually descending into a milder climate, I was hailed by the vineyards which luxuriously surround the sequestered little village of Frauenstein.
Upon a rock overhanging the hamlet there stood solemnly before me the remains of the old castle of Frauenstein or Frankenstein, supposed to have been built in the thirteenth century. In the year 1300 it was sold to the Archbishop Gerhardt, of Mainz, but soon afterwards, being ruined by the Emperor Albrecht I., in a tithe war which he waged against the prelate, it was restored to its original possessors.
But what more than its castle attracted my attention in the village of Frauenstein, was an immense plane-tree, the limbs of which had originally been trained almost horizontally, until, unable to support their own weight, they were now maintained by a scaffolding of stout props. Under the parental shadow of this venerable tree, the children of the village were sitting in every sort of group and attitude; one or two of their mothers, in loose, easy dishabille, were spinning, many people were leaning against the upright scaffolding, and a couple of asses were enjoying the cool shade of the beautiful foliage, while their drivers were getting hot and tipsy in a wine-shop, the usual sign of which is in Germany the branch of a tree affixed to the door-post.
As I had often heard of the celebrated tree of Frauenstein, before which I now stood, I resolved not to quit it until I had informed myself of its history, for which I well knew I had only to apply to the proper authorities: for in Germany, in every little village, there exists a huge volume either deposited in the church, or in charge of an officer called the Schuldheisz, in which the history of every castle, town, or object of importance is carefully preserved. The young peasant reads it with enthusiastic delight, the old man reflects upon it with silent pride, and to any traveller, searching for antiquarian lore, its venerable pages are most liberally opened, and the simple information they contain generously and gratuitously bestowed.
On inquiring for the history of this beautiful tree, I was introduced to a sort of doomsday-book about as large as a church Bible; and when I compared this volume with a little secluded spot so totally unknown to the world as the valley or glen of Frauenstein, I was surprised to find that the autobiography of the latter could be so bulky,—in short, that it had so much to say of itself. But it is the common weakness of man, and particularly, I acknowledge, of an old man, to fancy that all his thoughts as well as actions are of vast importance to the world; why therefore should not the humble Frauenstein be pardoned for an offence which we are all in the habit of committing?